Honestly the more I think about it the more I really think the sun and moon dew mushroom rlly should've been an amorphophallus instead
- extremely rare and take an immense amount of expertise and tedious care and special conditions to bloom (to the point where one blooming is an incredibly proud event for gardens and often publicized to draw visitors nationwide)
- on average take 5-7 years, sometimes even 10 for some varieties, to reach maturity
- human sized
- called the "corpse flower" (because it smells like rotting flesh)
- weird penis shape
- variety called amorphophallus yaoi
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something i've unfortunately had to come to terms with and urge you all to keep in mind is that there is often no good faith conversation to be had with a zionist — these people are well aware that thousands of palestinians have been murdered in the past month, that the 1948 nakba was one of the most horrific displacements of a human population in history, that israel is currently carrying out ethnic cleansing with full endorsement from the united states — they simply don't care.
attempting to appeal to their sense of morality will not work when these people don't see palestinians as human beings; they have no moral conscience to speak of.
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Being super dramatic is a family trait shared between Eragon, Murtagh, and Roran, but in different ways. Eragon is especially dramatic when he's making decisions, but not always in the way he talks about it. Particularly later in the series he can be quite frank and even about bat shit choices, for example, when discussing that he's decided to leave Alagaesia for the rest of his indefinite life because he had his fortune told once. On the other hand, Murtagh is usually quite practical with his actual decision making, but he does love to make a dramatic spectacle. Like the way he takes Zar'roc from Eragon as a way to reveal that they're brothers, he's so extra.
And then there's fucking Roran who trumps both of them by being infinitely more dramatic in both way. The theatrics are constantly off the charts with this man. Completely unhinged with zero chill, he always takes the most over the top option available in every situation and makes such a scene of it. His fucking speech to convince the villagers to leave Carvahall, the way he insists on going through the boar's eye, his ploy to scare the empire away from their camp at Aroughs solely with feigned overconfidence. This man contemplates every possible way to murder Nasuada's guards while waiting to see her and believes they must be thinking the same about him, like no babe, it's just you, no one else is this melodramatic and feral
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soap and ghost work out together and the second they enter the gym, ghost knows his sergeant’s in a mood. he’s got a comment for everything; poking at ghost’s form and his entire routine, shamelessly checking him out in the mirrors and practically ignoring his own work out until he gets to the weight bench.
soap plops himself on ghost’s hips with a paper-thin excuse of playing his spotter and chats shit about how much he’s lifting for his entire set. “that the best you got?”, “thought you were here for a workout, lt.”, “careful, lookin’ a lil’ shaky there, sir,” until ghost finally sets the bar back on the rack and orders him to switch places.
soap settles under the bar, ghost sitting heavy and imposing on his hips as he looks down at him. he doesn’t look taunting or irritated, he’s blanker than ever and soap just smirks back and lifts the bar.
and fuck is it heavy, more than he ever lifts, but soap’s always put his money where his mouth is and he refuses to put it back up until he gets at least ten reps in. he’s pushing to hide the shake in his arms as the set crawls by, huffing out harsh breaths with every rep, face steadily turning red.
ghost doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even blink as he gets to seven, to eight, to nine-
until the final rep where he crosses his arms over the bar and holds it down.
soap’s eyes widen as he rushes to adjust to the new weight, hands almost slipping as he scrambles to find the new balance point. “christ, lt., what the fuck?” he grunts, the shake in his arms growing worse by the second.
“finish the set, sergeant,” ghost orders, expectant apathy in his voice as he leans heavier on the bar.
he locks his elbows as they attempt to buckle but he can’t move it any higher. “’m fuckin’ tryin’,” he grits out.
he just shakes his head. “i don’t want you to try,” he dismisses. “i want you to lift it.”
sweat pours down soap’s face, panting as he fights against the weight. “ghost-”
ghost stands, pushing down harder as he towers over the bar to get into soap’s face. “lift the fucking bar, sergeant,” he growls.
soap screams as he shoves against ghost’s weight with everything he has until the bar finally slips over the edges of the rack, the entire bench rocking with the force of it settling into place.
his arms flop uselessly back down, hanging either side of the bench completely numb as he pants, too breathless to think as his head spins and his cock throbs.
ghost just pats his reddened cheek as he slings his leg off him and heads over to the exercise bikes; not even sparing a glance at him as he throws out, “‘atta boy, johnny.”
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